"It is true, I tell you," said Nestley in a harsh whisper, coming close to her. "Una Challoner would not listen to me because she loves Reginald Blake. Beaumont also loves her and sees Blake is an obstacle in his path, he will remove that obstacle by fair means or foul--but remove it he will--he'll obtain such power over Blake that he will get him to make a will in his favour, then--then--you can guess what will follow." "Oh! but it's horrible--horrible--this man would never do such a thing." "I know Basil Beaumont--you don't." "Don't I!" she cried viciously, turning round. "I know him only too well--I was a good woman once!" "Ah! I thought you were another victim," said Nestley cynically. "And what do you propose to do?" "Do!" she said fiercely. "I will write him a letter and warn him once and for all--if he refuses to accept the warning I will show him no mercy--he must give up all thought of Una Challoner--she shall marry Reginald Blake and none other." "She will never do that while Beaumont lives--I know she loves Blake, but Beaumont loves her, and what are those two innocents against his devilish craftiness?" "He has got to deal with me as well as with them," she said grandly. "Sooner than Beaumont shall harm a hair of their heads I will end his life and his villanies at the same time." "You would not kill him?" "I will do what I say--if he does not accept the warning I send him, his life is in his own hands not mine." Nestley stood silent with astonishment, while without another word, Patience swept out of the room, and then only did he recover his power of speech. "Ugh!" he said with a shiver. "I believe she will--but no--Beaumont is a man nothing can harm--devils are sent upon the earth for some purpose, and he is one." He crouched down over the fire, the red light of which glared upon his face, bringing out all the lines and hollows now stamped on it and making him look very old and grey. Outside, the night was closing in and he shivered again as the deep voice of the church bell rang through the keen air. "It's Sunday," he whispered. "Sunday night--I ought to go to church. Church!" he repeated with a dreary laugh, "there's no church for me--between myself and God stands the devil of Drink." CHAPTER XXXI. PSALM CVII. 19. Some chance word May strike upon an inattentive ear And rouse the soul from selfish slumberings, To wrestle with a thousand subtle foes That would destroy its hope of Paradise.